


No Escape

by randi2204



Category: Voltron: Defender of the Universe, Voltron: Lion Voltron
Genre: Dark, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 06:08:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randi2204/pseuds/randi2204
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lotor has a captive and a game he very much enjoys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This is much, much darker than what I usually write. Beware of torture, non-con and character death.
> 
> Disclaimer: WEP owns Voltron. The high muckety-mucks surely would be having bovines in the breech position did they know of this.

Lotor stared at the dark head bowed in front of him, and couldn’t stop his lips from stretching in a pleased smile.

 

At one point, perhaps, the man hanging in the shackles might have been something else – he might have been a great pilot, a navigator of the first water, a brilliant engineer, a fearless explorer of space.

 

But then he’d come to Doom.  Once he’d taken his first step from his ship, he was nothing more than a spy sent by the Galaxy Alliance. 

 

Then he’d been captured and brought before Lotor.  He hadn’t once begged for mercy, which was only fair, seeing as Lotor didn’t believe in giving mercy.

 

Now, he was a slave, subject to the whims of his master. 

 

And it pleased his master to treat him accordingly.

 

The man didn’t have enough strength now to bear his own weight; he hung from his wrists, knees bent.  What little slack there may have been in the chains was gone; they creaked softly as the man slumped further.  The shackles had rubbed his wrists raw and the welts oozed.  Lotor’s smile grew even wider as he reflected that, even if the shackles were to be removed now, the scars would forever show.  _You’ll always be a slave,_ he thought with great satisfaction.  _You’ll never be able to escape it._

 

_Not that you could escape the dungeon now anyway._

 

He stepped closer, his bootheels ringing loudly against the cold stone floor, and his grin fled when the prisoner didn’t even flinch.  Snake-strike-quick, he grabbed the man’s chin, and frowned thunderously when he saw that his eyes had rolled back so only the merest crescent of color showed.  The skin beneath his fingers was cool to the touch, and somewhat damp, perhaps from the dank air.  “He’d better still be alive,” he said, his tone as threatening as he could make it, and glowered over his shoulder at the slave-pen overseer who had accompanied him.  “I’m not finished with him.”

 

The slave-master bowed and fawned obsequiously enough to curl Lotor’s lip.  “Yes, Your Highness, he’s still alive.  Though,” the sycophant hedged, and Lotor could smell his nervousness, “it hasn’t been easy keeping him alive, considering your orders, my Prince…”

 

He arched an eyebrow at that, surprised at the man’s temerity.  “Oh?”

 

The slave-master froze, as if sensing that he’d gone too far.  “M-minimal r-rations of food and water make it difficult for a body to recover from minor things,” he said, but Lotor smirked, seeing that he was trying to back away.  “An-and, my Prince, you’ve had this particular slave flogged on display at every feeding in the slave pens since his arrival, not to mention the… uh… more _personal_ nature of the beatings you have administered on your visits…”

 

Lotor advanced on the slave-master, looming over him.  “Are you _criticizing_ my treatment of this slave?” he asked, his voice low and cold.

 

The slave-master swallowed heavily; he would have kow-towed if Lotor had let him.  “N-no, Your Highness! I wouldn’t dare!”

 

He straightened away from the smaller man, fingering the hilt of his sword.  “Be sure you don’t,” he warned.  Then he spun back toward the slave hanging on the wall.  “As long as he’s alive, I don’t care.”  He snapped his fingers, and the two guards that had accompanied him entered the cell.  “Turn him around.”

 

One of the guards held out his hand to the slave-master for the keys to the prisoner’s chains, while the other presented Lotor with the nine-fingered whip he carried.  Watching as the slave’s back – criss-crossed with overlapping dark scabs, rubbed red and raw from scraping against the wall, oozing blood and other fluids – was exposed to him, Lotor let his fingers run lovingly along the braided leather tails of his whip.  At the very end of each tail, sharp bits of metal dangled from the leather.  The leather was discolored, and the metal was a dull reddish-brown.

 

_I’ll have to replace it again soon._

 

When Lotor looked up again, the slave’s back was to him.  He still dangled by his wrists, one cheek pressed to the wall despite the damp and slime there.  His breath was clearly audible in the silence of the cell, uneven and rattling slightly.

 

Lotor smiled, a thin cruel twist of his lips, and his heart started to beat faster in anticipation.  “Go,” he ordered softly.  The slave’s shoulders were heaving with the effort of his breathing, and he was so engrossed with watching for a flinch that he never heard the shuffling of feet or the creak of the closing door.

 

He let the length of the whip slide back through his fingers to fall with a dull thud against the stone.  There was no reaction from the slave, not even a twitch of his dark head.  Lotor frowned.

 

A moment later, the whip snapped through the air and licked down the slave’s thin back, leaving red streaks as it went.  Listening carefully, Lotor heard a hiss as the slave sucked in a breath, and he grinned widely.   He stepped forward, until he was right up against the slave, able to bend down and speak right into his ear.  “You can’t escape that way,” he whispered, and grabbed a handful of the slave’s dark hair, jerking his head back painfully.  “There’s no escape from this,” he went on, his voice dropping even lower, hand tightening in hair long grown shaggy.  “No escape from me.”

 

Without warning, he let go of the slave’s hair, letting his head thump against the wall.

 

The slave had not even opened his eyes.

 

Lotor slashed the whip through the air again, again, sometimes letting the tips of the tails rake down the slave’s back, sometimes just letting the wind from its passage wash over him, in no particular pattern.  Before too long, though, the pale skin had turned an ugly dark red, and blood sluggishly trailed down the prominent knobs of his spine, from wounds both new and re-opened.

 

After a few more blows, Lotor stopped, suddenly aware of how heavily he was breathing, of how the slave’s breath seemed to rasp.

 

Excitement filled him.  His heart pounded hard against his ribs.  The sight of the slave’s back – a bloody ruin of scars and torn flesh – make him lick his lips.

 

He let the tails of the whip drag against the stone floor, reaching out to run his fingers through the blood and strips of flayed skin.  “And here you thought you couldn’t be pretty any more,” he said, smearing the blood that coated his hand over the slave’s back in aimless patterns.  “Such a pretty red.”

 

No reaction, not even a shudder.

 

He dropped the whip altogether, and that hand went to the front of his trousers, spreading over the hardness of his cock.  “Yes,” he exhaled, rubbing the one hand over his erection and the other through blood.  “You’re so beautiful like this… broken… beaten…”  Quickly, he opened his pants, letting his prick spring out to brush against the slave’s ass.

 

A tiny shiver, a movement so small that had he not been studying the slave, Lotor would have missed it.  He grinned and leant down again, careful not to let his chest brush against the slave’s back, because blood and pus stained so.  “Something else you can’t escape,” he murmured, “something else you can only accept… until I choose to stop.”

 

He straightened once more, and the hand that was covered with the slave’s red blood dropped to his cock, rubbing it.  Again and again, that hand collected blood and transferred it to his cock, until Lotor was aching with arousal, until he was stickily slick.  Roughly, he pulled the slave’s hips toward him, lifting him up almost bodily and spreading his legs before ramming home.

 

He was fully seated in one long thrust.  The slave hadn’t had the strength to fight back for a long time, and this time was no different, save for the clenching of his sphincter.  But even that was ineffective, and Lotor groaned as he felt the warmth of the slave’s ass surrounding him, tightening around him fractionally.  “Oh, yes,” he moaned.  “Fight me,” and he pulled back, withdrawing until on the tip of his cock remained inside before slamming back in.  “You know how I like it when you do…”

 

He didn’t care that his punishing thrusts ground the slave’s face against the wall, didn’t care that it was peeling the whole of the slave’s front raw; all Lotor cared about was his own pleasure.  Even the degradation of the slave was secondary to attaining that peak now.

 

Back and forth he plunged, neither knowing or caring if he was stroking over the slave’s prostate.  In fact, the thought of the slave’s cock striving to grow erect despite the pain in his ass, despite the way it scraped against the stone wall with every thrust, made him work faster, harder.  Grunting, he pounded and pounded, fingers digging into the slave’s hips, until with a gasp, he climaxed, white stars bursting in his eyes from the intensity.

 

Panting again, it took a moment for his oxygen-deprived brain to process what his senses were telling him.  He couldn’t hear the slave’s rasping gasps for air.  The skin beneath his blood-stained hands felt cooler still, but most telling was the way that his ass was no longer tight around his cock; his sphincter had relaxed.

 

With a curse, he withdrew completely from the slave’s corpse, and it swung lightly in the chains from the recoil, fluids dribbling down his thigh.  “Guard!” he bellowed, tucking himself away.

 

In a moment, the guards and the slave-master had reappeared, opening the cell door with another loud creak.  “My lord?” one of the guards asked, looking around for the threat.

 

“I’m through here,” was Lotor’s curt reply.  To the slave-master, he growled, “Take that out and throw it on the refuse pile,” and jerked his thumb at the dangling body of the slave.

 

“And this, my Prince?”  The other guard had picked up the whip and coiled it, and now offered it to him.

 

“That, as well.”  His slow, cruel smile returned.  “I need to replace both these toys.”

 

And with that, he swept out of the cell, long white hair flowing behind him like a banner. 

 

Striding down the corridor to his quarters, he thought, _I wonder how Allura is going to take losing another member of her precious team, knowing it’s her fault… Perhaps this is the one that will force her to surrender…_ Lotor started to laugh, and quickened his pace.

 

_After all,_ he thought, brimming with glee, _that’s something _else_ there’s no escape from…_

 

***

September 12, 2007


End file.
